


The Betrayer's Redemption

by JoachimNapoleon (UselessGoats)



Category: Alternate History - Fandom - Fandom, Alternative Universe - Fandom, Napoleonic Era RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle Of Waterloo, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Napoleonic Wars, Reconciliation, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UselessGoats/pseuds/JoachimNapoleon
Summary: A what-might-have been, alternative history: Napoleon grants his brother-in-law Joachim Murat, the fallen King of Naples and the man who had temporarily aligned himself to Napoleon's enemies a year earlier, a chance to redeem himself before the climactic battle of Waterloo.Dedicated to my writing partner and good friend Histoireettralala. :)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	The Betrayer's Redemption

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Histoireettralala (UselessGoats)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UselessGoats/gifts).



**10 June 1815**

***Murat***

He had been waiting for hours, but it felt like years.

This was a favorite tactic of Napoleon's; one of the innumerable methods his brother-in-law had employed over the years to make Murat aware of his displeasure. In the immediate aftermath of Napoleon's marriage to Marie-Louise, five years earlier, Murat had waited impatiently for days at Compiègne for an audience, to discuss the increasingly contentious affairs of Naples and to request formal permission to return to his kingdom. He had had himself announced, day after day, and been ignored, day after day. Only when he had finally reached the end of his patience and written an indignant letter to Napoleon declaring his intention to present himself to the Emperor that day no matter what, did his brother-in-law finally deign to see him. The ensuing meeting had been explosive, concluding with an irate Napoleon threatening to have Murat's head.

 _And maybe_ _this time_ _, he will_.

As bad as things had been between the two men in 1810, their relationship, while rocky, had not been beyond salvaging, as Murat was convinced it was now. _How could it not be?_ Napoleon was a forgiving man--far more forgiving that most people would ever know or believe, and Murat had been the beneficiary of his brother-in-law's forgiveness more than perhaps any one other man in the entire French Empire. But every man had limits to his forgiveness; even Napoleon. And surely that limit did not extend to treason.

The word still made Murat bristle. He had never been able to come to grips with the idea that he was a traitor; after all, he had been acting as the King of Naples, an anointed sovereign, recognized by all the other monarchs of Europe. Did a monarch not have the right to make whatever treaties he pleased with his fellow monarchs? Was it treason for a king to look after the interests of his own kingdom? Even if it was a kingdom bestowed upon him by the Emperor. It was still _his_ , and he had an obligation to his subjects. An obligation which, in his view, certainly didn't involve being needlessly destroyed alongside Napoleon, and having his throne revert to the beastly Ferdinand, who had never cared for them.

But he had not intended to take up arms against France. He had tried desperately to avoid it, had stalled for as long as he could, hoping the war would end before it came to that, but his new "allies" had forced his hand. The Neapolitan army would enter the fray, or the treaty was null and void, and his crown with it. If it had been _treason_ , it had been a reluctant, half-hearted one.

Bertrand, Napoleon's Grand Marshal, at last informed Murat that the Emperor would see him now.

Murat rose, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He had been dreading the very idea of this moment since before his signature was dry on the treaty with Austria over a year and a half earlier. But what choice did he have?

The door opened.

"The King of Naples," Bertrand announced.

Murat barely suppressed a grimace at the words. They felt like little more than a mockery now. He was a king in name only. His hasty attack on his erstwhile allies, the Austrians, who had been on the verge of betraying him, had ended in disaster. Now the English occupied Naples; Ferdinand had already been reinstalled on the Neapolitan throne. Murat had learned three days earlier that his wife and four children had been forced to flee the kingdom; having taken refuge on an English vessel, they had been promised safe passage to France, only to be promptly delivered to Trieste, where they were now virtual prisoners of the Austrian government.

He didn't expect to ever see them again.

***Napoleon***

An ominous, stifling silence reigned over the throne room as the two men stood before each other for the first time since November of 1813. _Which one of us_ , he wondered _, has been looking forward to this meeting less?_

A part of him had never wanted to see Murat again. He'd been tempted to forbid his brother-in-law from entering Paris. He'd been tempted to have him placed under arrest. He'd been tempted to ignore his correspondence altogether and let the poor fool reap what he'd sown.

Up until the defection of Marmont, nothing had ever wounded him as profoundly as Murat's betrayal. Over a year later, most of his anger had burned away; but the hurt remained.

Their relationship had always been complicated. Their personalities had guaranteed it would be. Napoleon was domineering, always needing to be in control of everything and everyone. Murat had always chafed at being controlled by anyone, from his superior officers as a young soldier, to his wife, all the way up to Napoleon himself; and the addition of a crown on his curly head had only made him chafe under Napoleon's control even more. "Kings," Murat had once griped, "are not meant to obey."

But it was more than that. There had always been something about Murat, from the day they had met, that had conjured in Napoleon's mind the heroes of ancient Greece and Rome, or from the medieval _chansons de geste._ Early in their relationship, after witnessing Murat on the battlefields of Italy, he had nicknamed him _Achilles_ , a name he later bestowed on Murat's first child. Murat was handsome, dashing, charming, and utterly fearless; he was also vain, impetuous, rash, and openly ambitious. He was one of the few men, like Lannes, not afraid to speak frankly to Napoleon, or even argue with him when he felt it necessary. His confidence (and obsession) with women aroused in Napoleon both envy and revulsion. He had been, both politically and militarily, Napoleon's pupil, and, in spite of Murat being two years his elder, Napoleon had always taken a paternalistic view towards him. Their relationship for the last twenty years had been tempestuous; periods of amity interrupted by bitter quarrels, followed by inevitable reconciliations, followed by renewed amity, interrupted by more bitter quarrels. Napoleon hated Murat, and loved him. It was a dichotomy with which he had never been entirely able to find peace.

He studied Murat intently, making a conscious effort to keep his expression rigid--even if Murat's blue eyes were trained firmly on the floor at the moment. It was important that his brother-in-law be made to feel the gravity of the situation. Handling Murat had always required the most delicate balance of, as he had put it to Caulaincourt at the commencement of the 1812 campaign, _a bit of bad temper and a bit of sentiment_. Too much cruelty had a deleterious effect on the man; too much sentiment and the requisite lesson would go unlearned.

Given the circumstances, however, perhaps a bit more cruelty than usual was in order today.

"Your endeavor against the Austrians was very foolish," Napoleon said.

The opening shot told; blue eyes flashed with a sudden anger, settling on Napoleon's face at last. The Emperor felt a glimmer of satisfaction. He was only getting started.

"I told you for years those _lazzaroni_ of yours would never make good soldiers. The Austrians might not be what they were a decade ago, but they're still disciplined, well-trained, and well-led. Your Neapolitans were none of those things. Merely an armed rabble of brigands, with no sense of loyalty to either their king or country. Were you _really_ surprised when they abandoned you at Tolentino? Did you really expect to win all of Italy with such a _canaille_?"

Murat's cheeks were growing redder with each sentence. His lips parted as if he might venture a response. Napoleon continued mercilessly.

"I hope you are fully aware of the danger your stupidity has placed France in, _for the second time_. Had you not been so precipitate in attacking your _dear friends, the Austrians"--_ the bitterness in his voice now was entirely unfeigned--"I _might_ have been able to come to terms with them, and keep yet another coalition from descending on us. Now, you've once again put me--put _France_ \--in the situation of fighting for survival. You may well have ruined us _twice_ by the time this is all said and done."

The Emperor continued his tirade, aiming every barb at Murat with the precision of an expert fencer, berating his judgment, his incompetence as a general, his political ineptitude, his lack of moral character. Murat bore it all with a placidity--or was it a numbness?--that Napoleon was not used to seeing in his normally highly-emotional brother-in-law. He was impressed in spite of himself.

But nobody knew Murat's weaknesses like Napoleon. Not even Caroline.

"And tell me," said Napoleon, "how it is possible, that such a devoted father can _abandon his children_ while an enemy army is at his very doorstep?"

He regretted the words almost as soon as they left his lips, as he often did when he knew he had gone too far. The effect on Murat was immediate and devastating. He shrank back as if he had been struck, blue eyes staring at Napoleon in horror. His breath came in increasingly short, almost panicked gasps, his legs wobbled, and within seconds he had fallen to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, shoulders quaking, his hands cupping his face.

Whatever catharsis he had been experiencing during the earlier progression of his tirade, was replaced now with remorse. He felt no satisfaction seeing this man, once so joyful and radiant, now a broken-down ruin, crumbled on the ground before him. Napoleon had enough self-awareness to recognize the significance of this sudden shift in his feelings.

_God help me. I still love him._

He crouched beside Murat, pulled him gently to his feet, and handed him a spare handkerchief from his coat.

"Shhhh, there there," he said, as though soothing a child. "All is not lost yet. And believe it or not, I didn't bring you here simply to hurt you."

Wet blue eyes regarded him in confusion.

"Wellington is coming for us," Napoleon continued. "You helped get us into this mess. Maybe now," and he gently brushed away a fresh-falling tear from Murat's face, "you can help get us out of it. I'm giving you one final chance to redeem yourself to me, Joachim. Don't make me regret it."

**  
17 June 1815**

***Murat***

His reception by the army had been chilly, but not overtly hostile. He had, after all, been far from the only man to abandon the Emperor in the past year; and unlike Marmont and a number of others, he had, at least, come back. Ney greeted him with a cold formality; they had never been close, and he knew the man would likely never forgive him for taking up arms against France, but he had served (and then abandoned) Louis himself in the end.

"Don't let Ney give you trouble," Napoleon had told him with a smirk. "He told Louis he'd bring me back to Paris in an iron cage; now, here he is."

But there were still those in the army who had retained their affection for Murat. His old chief of staff, and dear friend since their days together in Italy, General Belliard, met him with a warm and tearful embrace, and remained as devoted to him as ever. His presence brought Murat a sense of security and comfort for which he was deeply grateful.

The battle would almost certainly take place tomorrow. He sat down that evening to write one final letter to Caroline and the children.

The pen hovered over the paper uncertainly for long moments throughout. He wasn't quite sure what to say to them. How to apologize sufficiently for the situation he had put them in. How to convey his crushing regret to Caroline for all the unhappiness he had brought her, for costing her the throne she had coveted so highly, for reducing her to a state of penury. How to ask forgiveness from Achille, who had been destined to become a king one day and was now left with nothing but a tainted family name. How to tell his sweet little girls...

The paper was nothing but a blur in his vision. A teardrop landed on the last word he had written, causing the ink to run. He hastily grabbed a handkerchief, or else it would all be ruined soon.

"Sire? Is everything alright?" Belliard had come in. Had it been anybody else, Murat would have felt deeply embarrassed.

"Yes, I was just... writing to my family."

Belliard gave a knowing nod. It was far from the first time he'd seen Murat in tears during this particular task.

"You'll see them again soon," Belliard said comfortingly. "After this is all over."

Murat nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course."

Actually, he had no intention of surviving this battle. But there was no point in causing his friend unnecessary pain by saying so.

**18 June 1815**

***Napoleon***

The council of war concluded; the marshals and generals began to disperse.

"Stay a moment," Napoleon told Murat as he had been about to step outside.

He couldn't help but notice the striking change in Murat's demeanor throughout the council. Normally outspoken and bombastic, this morning he had scarcely said a word. Everything about Murat seemed subdued, from his posture to his relatively nondescript uniform. Even those blue eyes, formerly so striking for their luminosity, always sparkling with joy and mischief, now seemed dull and devoid of light.

It was painfully recognizable. Napoleon remembered his own state of mind a year ago, when his entire world had seemed to collapse from under him so abruptly. Months later on Elba, he had still been reeling from the shock of it all, though he had done his utmost to hide it. But Murat's heart had always been worn on his sleeve. The toll his recent losses had taken on him was there for all the world to see.

"Are you ready?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes, Sire."

"Good. The cavalry is in good shape, probably better shape than it was in 1813. I know you've never fought the English before, but I'd assume their squares can be broken the same as those of the Austrians, Russians, and Prussians."

"Yes, Sire."

Napoleon regarded his brother-in-law thoughtfully.

"Joachim..." He hesitated. "Don't go trying to get yourself killed today."

Murat said nothing. His eyes flickered for the briefest instant on Napoleon's face before refocusing on the Emperor's boots.

Napoleon took Murat's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up. Murat's eyes found his again, with obvious reluctance.

"I mean it," Napoleon said with just the right amount of sternness. "That isn't why I brought you here. _Redemption_ does not have to be synonymous with _death_."

"How else am I to atone--"

"By helping me _win_ today. That is how you atone."

"But as you said, I cost you _everything_."

"And now I have it back. All I want you to do today, is help me to keep it."

***Murat***

He was never more in his element than at the head of French cavalry. He had been doubtful that they would follow him today with anything even remotely like the enthusiasm that had animated them during the glory days of the _Grande Armée_.

He had been wrong.

One English square broke; and then another. The cavalry hadn't fought with such a relentless determination since Eylau. Murat's white plumage--the sole adornment he had permitted himself on this day--was as a beacon to them. Shot and shell hurtled through the air, and more than once he heard the peculiar _zip_ of a musket-ball as it scarcely missed his head. Men and horses fell all around him, but he rode and fought like a man possessed, utterly indifferent to the prospect of his own death.

He did not ride straight into the enemy artillery, as he had in a moment of black despair during the final, terrible moments of Tolentino. He would honor his promise to Napoleon, and not seek death deliberately.

Given the particular viciousness of this battle, he figured there was a good enough chance that it would find him on its own.

***Napoleon***

It was a near-total route. Through his eyeglass now was the magnificent sight, visible even through all the smoke, of thousands of red-coated soldiers scurrying like rats in every direction. Most of the fighting was over; there was no chance of the English rallying at this stage, and their Prussian allies had arrived too late to make a difference. He looked for Wellington, whom he had spotted earlier across the field, but failed to find him.

It didn't matter. They had done it. They had won. His throne would be secure.

His eyeglass searched for the familiar white plumage, whose wearer had proven so crucial to the day's outcome.

He had taken a gamble in bringing Murat back into the army, and it had paid off. He would remember the sight of Murat charging headlong into those squares, again and again, until his dying day.

Through the eyeglass he could see Murat talking to Belliard. They appeared to be laughing. Napoleon smiled. Murat had been redeemed, and his spirit was already being rekindled.

And then Murat's body jerked suddenly. The smile of Belliard was replaced with wide-eyed shock, then gaping horror. Murat slumped into the arms of his chief-of-staff like a broken doll. The white-plumed hat tumbled to the ground.

Napoleon's eyeglass fell to the earth, dropped from fingers that had gone slack.

***

The victory at Waterloo had been more thorough than he ever could have hoped for. Wellington's army had been all but destroyed. Wellington himself, Napoleon had learned hours later, had been killed. The irascible General Blücher, bent on hanging Napoleon like a common criminal, had been severely wounded.

He could take no joy in any of it. Relief, perhaps, but not joy. Murat had been struck by a pistol-ball, and, according to Larrey, it was the flip of a coin as to whether he would survive. Much depended on the next few days, and whether or not infection set in.

Belliard, who had been keeping a constant vigil at Murat's bedside, rose wearily as Napoleon entered the room.

"How is he?"

"He... flickers in and out of consciousness, Sire," Belliard said. His face was pale, his voice strained.

Napoleon nodded. "If you wouldn't mind... giving me some time alone with him."

"Of course, Sire."

Belliard left the room, and Napoleon seated himself in the vacated chair.

He placed a gentle hand on Murat's forehead. It was slightly warm. Murat's eyes were closed, his breathing labored. He took Murat's limp hand in his own, and placed his other hand on top of it.

_Don't let me lose him. Not like Lannes, and Duroc... and so many others. Not like this, not after all of this. Don't let me lose him._

***Murat***

He wasn't dead. At least not yet.

Maybe.

He couldn't be entirely certain.

His periods of what he took to be wakefulness were a blur, and interrupted by long stretches of darkness intermingled with feverish dreams and inexplicable, otherworldly imaginings. He had vague notions of the omnipresence of Belliard, occasional glimpses of Napoleon and Larrey, and he thought he had even seen Ney once or twice but it was all so... hazy. He also saw a man who looked very much like Lannes at one point; but the only way that made sense was if they were _all_ dead. Surely that couldn't be the case. Could it? Yet he was positive it had been Lannes.

His dreams took him to the beloved terrace of the _Palazzo Reale_ in Naples, where he and Caroline and the children had shared so many blissful moments. And they were always there in his dreams, waiting for him. He awoke with tears on his face, gently wiped away by the faithful Belliard.

His wound ached dreadfully, and he was miserably hot.

Belliard was reading him a letter now. Murat hadn't heard who it was from; his eyelids were heavy, and his feeble attempts to keep them open ended with a quick surrender. He hoped to find himself back on the terrace with his family soon.

He faded out again as Belliard's voice continued to read.

"... _Caroline... with child..."_

*******Seven Months Later*******

***Napoleon***

He fought back a smile as he watched Murat pace back and forth anxiously. His brother-in-law had worked himself into a near frantic state. Had he always been like this when Caroline gave birth? _Probably_.

"Why don't you sit down and try to relax? You're going to carve a trench into the floor with your silly pacing."

Murat gave him a bewildered look.

"What?" Napoleon asked innocently. "She's done this four times now. She'll be fine."

"Yes but the last time was over _eleven years ago._ And her health has suffered much since then."

"You worry too much."

"Just let me pace."

Murat paced, and rambled at length about various, random subjects, as he generally did when he was under stress. Napoleon occasionally managed to squeeze a word or two in, but otherwise let Murat ramble as he needed to. He had made sure that they were in a room far distant from the sounds of Caroline's labors; otherwise his brother-in-law would've been even more of a wreck than he already was.

Eventually-- _mercifully_ , Napoleon thought--Marie-Louise came in to deliver the news. Murat regarded the Empress anxiously. She leaned up and whispered something in Murat's ear. Napoleon leaned in, struggling to hear, but failed to make out the words.

Murat looked mystified.

"... T... Two?"

The Empress nodded, beaming at him.

"My God," Murat murmured, then stumbled out of the room.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at his wife. "Wait... _two_ as in... _two babies_?"

"Yes. Two beautiful baby girls."

***Murat***

He placed a tender kiss on Caroline's lips. His wife was exhausted, but well. There had been no complications with the births.

"Look what we've done now, my love," she said, giving him a tired smile before gesturing to the midwife. The old woman gently placed two tiny, blanket-wrapped bundles in Murat's waiting arms.

Murat stared at his two new little princesses, unable to speak. They both stared up at him with bright, curious blue eyes, cooing contentedly.

"You'd better rest up, little sister," Napoleon intoned from the doorway, grinning. "You're going to have _three_ blubbering messes to take care of now, instead of just one."

Murat smiled through his tears--happy tears, this time. He had never thought that life would ever be this beautiful again.

***END***


End file.
